This was the adopted son of Bob Greenlease’s first marriage; Greenlease’s second wife, Virginia, had presented her husband with two late-in-life children, a daughter whose name I didn’t recall and of course the missing Bobby.

“I’ve been serving as the family’s spokesman,” Paul said, offering a listless handshake. “Dad has taken this awfully hard.”

We were standing in an entryway larger than most living rooms.

“I’m sure,” I said. “How’s your mother doing?”

“It kind of varies, day to day. She’s been sedated a lot, frankly. Sometimes things seem to be looking up, then…”

“Then they’re down. I understand these creatures have you folks jumping through hoops—one message, one call, one snipe hunt after another.”

He nodded, swallowed. “They’ve left us notes under crayon-marked rocks. They’ve taped letters underneath mailboxes. One note sent us to another note with instructions too confusing to follow.”

“Sounds like you’re dealing with dolts.”

He had an ashen look. “They want a lot of money. That’s not a problem, understand, but it took a while to get together.”

“How much?”

He paused, not sure he should share this, then did: “Six hundred thousand. Dollars.”

“Good God. That must be a record.”

“I wouldn’t know. Is that a lot for this kind of thing?”

Lindbergh had been asked for $50,000. Of course that was a while ago. Inflation had hit every business.

“The very first letter specified federal reserve notes,” Paul said, “in tens and twenties. Mr. Eisenhower at Commerce Trust is helping. He’s the president’s brother.”

“Of the bank?”

“No, of America. You know—Ike?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t mention I hadn’t voted for him. “And Ike’s brother got the money together?”

“Yes. And we tried to deliver it but it was raining and these letters have been kind of illiterate and…well, we left the money but the kidnapper called us later and said he couldn’t find it.”

Jesus.

“We went back and picked the money up,” Paul said, escorting me down a hallway. “We tried another time, but.… You should really talk to my father.”

We stopped at a doorless archway. Very softly, he said, “Sue’s become a sort of appendage to Dad. She’s eleven. They’re sort of…helping each other through this.”

“I understand.”

“But it might hamper what gets said. Just so you know.”

“Got it.”

We moved through the archway into a big living room. Again, the room was fighting itself, stark Arts and Crafts furnishings, walls of square-panel mahogany, but a ceiling of ornate plaster work with a chandelier; a grand piano lurked in one corner, the fireplace going, dispensing warmth out of a coldly elaborate decorative mantel over which hung a gilt-framed painting, a family portrait of Robert Greenlease and his wife Virginia with a much younger Paul at his side and a toddler Sue by her mother’s. Bobby Greenlease, not yet born, was already absent.

A dark leather-cushioned Stickley sofa faced the fire and the back of Robert Greenlease’s head and his broad shoulders—he was in a blue satin dressing gown—were to me.